Olga's sense of humour vibrated a little over this thought.

He was always so scathing about her worship of Nick.

He would certainly find no use for such feminine trash himself.
And yet--and yet--through her mind, vague as a dream, intangible yet not wholly elusive, there floated once more the memory of a voice that had reassured, a hand that had lulled her to rest.

Had he really spoken that word of tenderness?
Had his lips really touched her hair?
Or had it all been a trick of her fancy already strung to fantastic imaginings by that magic draught?
She told herself that she would have given all she had to know if the dream were true and then found herself trembling from head to foot lest haply she might one day find that it had been so.

Yes, on the whole she was relieved, thankful beyond measure, that he had not made love to her.
Things were better as they were.
The church clock struck one as she arrived at this comfortable conclusion, and she turned her back to the moonlight and composed herself for slumber.